Nothing I need.
I close the door without a sound and move to the next.
It creaks open onto a narrow staircase that disappears downward into darkness. The air tastes of damp earth, mold, and old cleaning supplies. A storage space. Maybe a forgotten exit. Maybe a trap.
Not this one.Not yet.
I back away, breathing through the creeping knot in my stomach. To a casual observer, I look like I’m simply lost again, trying doors at random the way a new volunteer might—curious, overeager, harmless.
But every step is strategic.
Every door is a question.Every corridor is a threat.
My heartbeat picks up when I reach the next one.
Even from a distance, I know.
The air shifts.Temperature drops.A faint vibration breathes through the wood like something living behind it.
I place a palm flat against the surface. The grain is cool—too cool—and beneath it I feel the latent hum of reinforced steel. My gaze drops to the bolted lock drilled straight into the frame.
This isn’t a closet.It isn’t even pretending well.
This is a vault dressed as a janitor’s space.
My pulse leaps, sharp enough to sting.This is it.This is where Giovanni hid the shit he didn’t dare burn.The files. The evidence. The truth my father chased until it killed him.
My fingertips hover over the lock.
God, I want to break it.Rip the door off its hinges.Scream into the darkness behind it until the truth answers me back.
But I don’t move.Not yet.
I force myself to look away, to scan for cameras—top corners, doorway angles, shelf edges. Nothing obvious. Which makes me trust this place even less.
My father always said the most dangerous rooms are the ones that pretend to be empty.
I shift my weight, adopting the posture of someone confused, maybe embarrassed by her mistake. I let my fingers brush the heavy bolt like I’m trying to open it for no reason other than I’m inexperienced.
A flicker catches in the glass frame across the hall from me—the one displaying old chalices and rosaries.
A shadow.A shape.Still.Tall.
Santino.
Ice shoots down my spine.
He’s at the far end of the hall, silent, unmoving, staring at me with the expression that strips away every excuse I could create.
He saw me touch the lock.
He saw the way I evaluated the door.
He saw everything.
I pull my hand away instantly. I force myself to turn toward the framed parish map on the wall, studying it like that’s what I came here for.
But I feel him watching.
